


where i want to be

by tookumade



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Constipation, Established Relationship, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tookumade/pseuds/tookumade
Summary: In the time they’ve been teammates at the MSBY Black Jackals, Sakusa has never been to Atsumu’s place, and Atsumu has only been to Sakusa’s a few times. There’s an unspoken understanding here: that Atsumu knows him well enough to know that nobody’s house or apartment would ever really meet his ridiculously high standards, and he is most comfortable in the home he’s made for himself.That, and, Atsumu being over at Sakusa’s means that he has to host him and do the cleaning afterwards, while Atsumu can just flit off back to his own place. So. There’s that.Tonight. Tonight is not business as usual. Tonight is not familiar.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 95
Kudos: 1545





	where i want to be

What does ‘dating’ even mean?

With more and more frequency, Sakusa finds himself asking this, question pointed to nobody in particular because he never says it out loud. Because whenever he even attempts to verbalise it, the words immediately jumble in his head, not unlike a particularly fussy and disapproving relative who refuses to acknowledge the partner in question.

Because the partner in question happens to be Miya Atsumu, and even Sakusa has to ask himself how the two of them ended up…………… together. Like, _together_ -together.

He supposes it’s not _completely_ unfounded and surprising. They’ve known each other a long time, after all, playing against each other in middle school and all the way through high school, because when you’re part of the best powerhouse teams in the country, you’re bound to keep running (headlong) into each other in the biggest tournaments until people stop guessing ‘will they meet’ and start guessing ‘will they meet in the semi-finals or the finals’. And then there was Atsumu jumping straight into the professional leagues while Sakusa went to university, and somewhere along the way, after not seeing each other for a few years, adolescence finally finished its work on Atsumu, and he grew up really. Really. _Really_ hot.

Which is, frankly, _horrifically unfair_. 

And then, of course, they became teammates, and one thing lead to another and now… they’re dating.

“What the fuck,” Sakusa whispers, staring into his frying pan. He is making pancakes for breakfast. This pancake has been cooking a little too long because he had been distracted by his thoughts. “ _What the fuck_.”

* * *

It’s been a few weeks already, and for the most part, nothing much is different. Atsumu acts like he always does during training: equal parts excellent and infuriating. So, it’s business as usual, and Sakusa tries to keep up with this, too. Their teammates hadn’t batted a single eyelid when they learnt about their new relationship status, but there had been a lot of delighted ‘ _about time, you bastards!_ ’ and even a few yen notes exchanged, to which Sakusa raised his eyebrows, and Atsumu dissolved into hysterical laughter. Sakusa chose not to question any of it for the sake of his sanity.

No, nothing much is different. The errands they sometimes run (together) for the team, the occasional meal out after training when they’re both hungry but too tired to cook, Atsumu dragging Sakusa out to accompany him to buy such-and-so item, as if he couldn’t go out on his own, but Sakusa always goes with him anyway…

It had been a very slow and gradual slope of events, starting from ‘ _ah shit ah god why is Miya on this team too?_ ’ to ‘ _FEELINGS?????_ ’—so gradual that Sakusa couldn’t really claim to have been startled by any of it. There had simply been a day when he began to realise, despite their competitive nature and their constant bickering and bantering, that he was comfortable in Atsumu’s company. And comfortable became something more and more, bigger and bigger, warmer and warmer, until—

( _“Go out with me,” Sakusa had said._

_“Okay? Where to?” Atsumu had replied, genuinely and obliviously, and Sakusa had to refrain from burying his face in his hands._ )

Not much is different today. Everything is business as usual. It’s familiar. Sakusa is perfectly content with the familiar.

* * *

In the time they’ve been teammates at the MSBY Black Jackals, Sakusa has never been to Atsumu’s place, and Atsumu has only been to Sakusa’s a few times. There’s an unspoken understanding here: that Atsumu knows him well enough to know that nobody’s house or apartment would ever really meet his ridiculously high standards, and he is most comfortable in the home he’s made for himself.

That, and, Atsumu being over at Sakusa’s means that he has to host him and do the cleaning afterwards, while Atsumu can just flit off back to his own place. So. There’s that.

Tonight. Tonight is not business as usual. Tonight is not familiar.

Atsumu is over for dinner after training. Sakusa hadn’t invited him so much as Atsumu had poked and prodded and whined because he wanted to ‘hang out, we’re _always_ at training, so I wanna spend some time together, just chill out, you know? _Pleeeeeease_ ’. They had bought take-away meals of two hearty servings of yakisoba, deep-fried crumbed pork cutlets, and blocks of agedashi tofu, and laid everything out over Sakusa’s dining table. His TV is on so Atsumu can watch a soccer match that’s replaying. Soccer has always been neutral territory for Sakusa, so he watches it too without getting invested in it, but truthfully, he pays more attention to watching Atsumu ooh and ahh over a good play or groaning like he’s physically hurt over a bad one. 

“Are you _sure_ you want to watch this?” Sakusa asks as Atsumu winces very hard and slaps his hands over his face, sinking down in his chair when one player kicks the ball and misses the goal by metres.

“It’s fine,” Atsumu whimpers, voice muffled behind his hands. “It makes me feel better about the home runs I serve.”

Sakusa can’t help it—he gives a snort of laughter. Atsumu uncovers his eyes just enough to peek at him, and Sakusa can see that he’s smiling.

“Finish your noodles,” says Sakusa, struggling—failing—to keep his face blank. “If you’re not having the last piece of tofu, I am.”

“Aw, hell no! You had more than me!” says Atsumu, scrambling for it.

Once dinner is finished, Sakusa starts washing the dishes—not because he’s being a good host, but because he doesn’t trust Atsumu to do a good enough job with them.

“I’m heartbroken,” says Atsumu in a completely deadpan voice as he sprawls over Sakusa’s couch and turns up the TV’s volume a little. “Me, not doing chores. How will I ever recover?”

To be fair, Sakusa brought that upon himself, so he doesn’t really have a good comeback aside from, “Feet off the couch, jackass.”

“ _Ohh_ , how was that not a red card?” Atsumu whispers, eyes glued to the screen, but he unfolds his legs and stretches them out, off the couch.

And that’s when Sakusa notices that it’s bucketing rain outside. _Bucketing_. Cats and dogs, raindrops pounding the roof of his apartment like the heavens has a vendetta against it, loud enough that he thinks it’s hail at first. Atsumu notices too, taking his eyes off the TV to watch the rain through the window of the living room.

“Hey, let me crash for the night,” he says after a while. Sakusa sets the last of the cutlery onto the dish rack next to the sink and looks over to stare at him like he’s sprouted an extra head.

“What,” he says. 

“Do you not see how hard it’s raining? I’m not going home in that.” Atsumu gives a long stretch. “I can take the couch. I’ll leave first thing in the morning. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Somehow, Sakusa really doubts that.

But he doesn’t say no.

Running a quick list in his head as he takes off his rubber gloves, he says, “Okay. I guess? I have a new toothbrush you can use. And you can use one of the glass cups from the kitchen for the time being. I have a new face towel somewhere.”

“You sound like you’re explaining a maths problem,” says Atsumu, pulling a face at him. “Your stunningly gorgeous boyfriend is staying the night and you can’t sound a little more enthusiastic?”

“Where do I begin with that sentence?”

“I am a _prize_ , Omi-kun, and you know it!”

Sakusa decides not to deign that statement with another retort. He moves to sit on the couch beside Atsumu. There’s a gap between them big enough for another person. “How much longer until this match ends?”

“There’s eight minutes left, plus extra time,” Atsumu answers. “I’m thinking another three minutes, maybe four. You can go to bed first, if you want.”

“I don’t sleep _that_ early; it’s not even half past nine.”

“Stay and watch with me, then.”

“This is my living room. Where else would I go?”

“I dunno,” says Atsumu. “Maybe you’d read in your room or someth— _hooo shit, did you see that?!_ ”

Someone had scored with a nice long kick that landed in the goal net from the top left corner. Atsumu dissolves into laughter. “ _Ohh_ , they’re two down, there’s no way they’re coming back from that! Hey, you know, I should take you to a J.League match sometime. Maybe a Gamba Osaka home match… their grounds are just over in Suita city.”

“I don’t know much about soccer,” says Sakusa.

“And I didn’t know how versatile baking soda was until you showed me. We learn things all the time, Omi-kun.”

They look at each other. Atsumu has a slowly widening smirk on his face. Sakusa smushes a couch cushion into his face, stands up, and declares that he’s going to take a shower.

Later that night, Atsumu, after brushing his teeth, is lying on the couch (“Feet on couch after all, huh, Omi-kun—are you buying a new one after this?”) curled up to compensate for his long legs having to dangle over the armrest, otherwise. He is playing a game on his phone when Sakusa comes into the living room and unceremoniously dumps a blanket on him.

“It’s a spare,” Sakusa explains when Atsumu makes a delighted noise and unfolds it over himself and the jacket he had been planning to use instead. “Do you need a pillow?”

“Nope! This is good.” Peering at him over the edge of the blanket, Atsumu beams. “I knew you liked me, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa gives him a pained look before he flicks off the light and starts heading to his room. “Go to sleep.”

“G’night, Omi-kun!”

And then, silence falls in his apartment.

He’s used to the quiet—likes it, cherishes it—but tonight, this silence is loud. Everything seems to be yelling _ATSUMU IS SLEEPING IN YOUR HOME (and you don’t even have a sofa bed, you asshole!)_ at him, and Sakusa finds himself lying wide awake.

The truth is, he has a double bed, and Atsumu could easily fit. But that would mean sharing a bed. Which is uncharted territory, because he has never shared a bed with _anyone_ before. _Ever_. Futons at training camps don’t count, because they all had one individually. Whether it was here in his own apartment, in hotels for away games, at training camps all through high school to university to playing professionally in the present day, living in the Itachiyama dormitories, staying at his parents’ house, or even the odd nights he crashed at his siblings’ homes, Sakusa’s sleeping space had always been his own.

What does ‘dating’ even mean? Did that mean sharing a bed sometimes? Did it mean loud silences that kept him awake every night? Did it mean having to tackle the unfamiliar?

What did Atsumu expect from Sakusa? Was he happy to continue as they always had? Was it ‘dating’ if it was their everyday lives as usual? What did it mean to Atsumu? 

Sakusa doesn’t remember falling asleep, but his usual morning alarm sounds the next morning and he opens his eyes to squint blearily around his room. After a few minutes of stretching and waking up, he shuffles out, but finds Atsumu nowhere in sight. The blanket he had been using is folded up neatly on the couch with a hand-written note sitting on it that reads “see you at training!” along with a hand-drawn “\\(^o^)/” and signed with “Atsumu” in kanji, as if this could’ve been any other person.

“Huh,” Sakusa mutters. Okay. So. It hadn’t been a complete disaster. Because nothing had happened. He had been overthinking for no reason, maybe.

Okay. Still familiar. Still business as usual.

He puts the blanket away and shuffles into his bathroom to begin his day.

* * *

A few days later, Atsumu playfully hip-checks him in the locker room at the end of training and says, “Let me stay over again.”

Sakusa takes his time replying as he folds his clothes, but it’s not a no. Maybe, maybe, maybe, there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to say no to Atsumu.

Atsumu goes home first to pack a night bag, and arrives at Sakusa’s place in the late afternoon with two cans of beer, which he promptly shoves into the fridge like he owns the place.

“Is that curry?” he says, peering into the pot bubbling away on the stove. Sakusa elbows him out of the way.

“I had all the ingredients for it and I felt like eating udon, so we’re having curry udon. It’s almost done.”

Atsumu stares at him. “You’re making curry from scratch?”

“Yeah?”

“Hah! Of _course_ you are.” Atsumu grins now. “I bet you’ve never touched store-bought curry mix in your life.”

“Of course I have.”

“I don’t believe you, but this smells amazing, so I’m not complaining.” And with that, Atsumu shuffles into the living area and flops onto the couch, switching on the TV.

The thing is, Sakusa _does_ have instant curry mix in his cupboard. But Atsumu is here. So. He’ll be a good host and put in more of an effort to make a nice dinner. Because… because…

(Because they’re dating and things are a bit different and he likes Atsumu and—)

Nope, nope, nope, he’s not going to think about this while the curry he’s worked so hard on is still cooking.

A handful of minutes later, they’re both seated at his dining table with their meals: a large serving of curry udon each, with carrots, potatoes, onions, thin slices of pork, two halves of an egg, and a sprinkle of finely chopped spring onions on top. Atsumu excitedly snaps a dozen photos with his phone (“I have to flaunt this to ‘Samu, of course!”), before giving a yelp and bolting from the table because they had almost forgotten the two cans of beer he’d brought.

“Thanks for the meal!” says Atsumu happily with a clap of his hands. He picks up his beer and knocks it against Sakusa’s with a “ _cheers!_ ” without waiting for him, and he takes a sip before swapping the can for his chopsticks and taking a hearty bite of noodles.

It’s kind of fascinating, watching him when he gets excited over food. Sakusa has picked up some noodles with his chopsticks, but he is not moving, instead staring at Atsumu, who covers his eyes with his hands as he chews.

“Um,” says Sakusa.

“What the hell, Omi-kun,” Atsumu whispers. “This is so fucking good. This is as good as ‘Samu’s curry… maybe even better. _What the hell_.”

Sakusa sighs and finally takes a bite. “Eat your food.”

“I can’t go back to instant curry mix after this. You’ve ruined curry for me.”

“If you don’t eat up, I’ll steal your egg.”

Atsumu hastily digs in. 

It’s a noisy sort of dinner: Atsumu making all sorts of sighs and groans over the deliciousness of the curry mingled with the refreshing taste of beer, and Sakusa making empty threats to take away his food if he doesn’t pipe down; discussing the upcoming match against VC Kanagawa; analysing some young talents who had shone in the high school nationals tournament just passed; throwing around some ideas for restaurants to go to for Tomas’ birthday coming up soon.

This is comfortable. It’s familiar. Sakusa likes this. He’ll never admit it out loud, and certainly not to Atsumu, but he doesn’t mind holding onto how… _nice_ this feels.

Jeez, he’s getting sappy. He must be tired. 

“Thanks for the food,” says Atsumu with a content sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Shit, that was _really_ good.”

“So you’ve been saying the entire time,” says Sakusa.

“Omi-kun, just take the compliment, will you?”

“Someday, you’ll stop with that nickname.”

“Too late. Bokkun and Shouyou-kun love it.”

“That’s why you need to stop.”

“Not happening.” Atsumu points to Sakusa’s empty bowl. “You done? I can wash the dishes.”

Sakusa raises his eyebrows. “You? Do chores?”

“Hey, I have no complaints if you wanna do them, but I’m trying to be a good guest here.”

“Start by dropping the nickname.”

“Dishes it is, then!” Atsumu stands from his chair and scoops up their bowls and chopsticks, making for the sink. “What’s the protocol? What do I use?”

“Blue sponge is for the non-stick pan—soft side only. Yellow sponge for everything else. Scouring side for the pot. You can use those gloves. Just use the dishwashing liquid, then rinse and leave on the dish rack to dry. ”

“Surprisingly conventional dishwashing methods, Omi-kun.”

“What were you expecting, exactly?”

“Lasers… a neurosurgeon’s precision… uhh, quantum physics?”

“ _What_.”

“Your dishes will be clean, is what I’m saying.”

And Atsumu gets to work.

After a few minutes of scrolling through his phone, Sakusa throws out their empty cans of beer, picks up a dish towel, and begins to dry the dishes in the rack by the sink. He can feel Atsumu looking over at him.

“I have nothing else to do,” Sakusa says simply, putting away some dried plates.

“Oh,” says Atsumu. “And here, I thought you missed me.”

“I was sitting _right there_.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you did. If I were you, I’d miss me, too— _no, it was a joke! I’ll stop! Come back and keep me company!_ ”

A noisy sort of dinner, a noisy sort of night. Atsumu complains that Sakusa didn’t tell him that there wasn’t any dessert, otherwise he would’ve picked up something on the way over, and then rattles off a list of sweets he wants to eat (“Don’t look at me like that, dessert is a second stomach.”). He pulls out _Tekken 7_ from his bag (“I can’t _believe_ the last _Tekken_ game you played was _Tekken 3!_ ” he says as he boots up Sakusa’s Playstation), and they spend the next hour and a half beating each other up with their characters and bickering like children about who won how many fights, until Sakusa declares that it’s time to shower and sleep, snatching Atsumu’s controller from his hands and shooing him away.

“You’re just sore because you didn’t win that last match!” says Atsumu, grabbing his towel, a change of clothes, and toiletries from his bag, and cheerfully making for the bathroom. “My girl Nina Williams is _number one!_ ”

“I hope you drown in the shower,” Sakusa calls after him, and Atsumu just cackles until he shuts the door.

And now…

As he carefully packs up the Playstation and returns Atsumu’s copy of _Tekken 7_ to his bag, Sakusa’s thoughts grow increasingly loud and he becomes more and more acutely aware of the impending sleeping situation.

_(Sleep. Couch. Blanket. Room. Bed. Double bed. Pillow. Night. Sleep. Couch. Blanket. Room—)_

And when Atsumu soon finishes up showering and brushing his teeth, it’s Sakusa’s turn. He had hoped he’d relax a bit more with a nice hot shower, but somehow, it’s the opposite.

He could share his bed with Atsumu. That would be okay. That would be okay? Would that be okay??? He and Atsumu are _dating_. Surely he could occasionally push the boundaries of whatever had been comfortable and familiar for them previously. Surely it wasn’t that bad. _Surely_ —

Sakusa comes out of the bathroom and steps into the living room to find Atsumu lying on the couch and scrolling through his phone.

“Had to brag to ‘Samu about my _Tekken_ wins,” Atsumu explains, though Sakusa hadn’t asked. “Can you bring out that blanket I used last time?”

And Sakusa takes a deep breath and takes the plunge.

“You can,” he says, gesturing towards his room with his thumb and avoiding eye contact with Atsumu like his life depends on it. “Sleep. Over there. I—my room, I mean.” 

Atsumu is staring at _him_ like he’s sprouted another head, now.

“Oh! You have a futon?” he says, and Sakusa makes a strangled sort of noise in his throat.

“ _No_ ,” he says, feeling heat flare in his cheeks. “No futon. No room for a futon. But. My bed’s a… a double bed. It’ll be more comfortable than the couch.”

“Oh,” says Atsumu again. And then: “ _Oh_.” And then, with a squint as he sits up: “Wait, are you _sure?_ ”

“Keep asking me, and I won’t be so sure.”

“Aw, _hell no_ , you are _not_ turning this against me.” Atsumu shakes an accusing finger at him. “This is _you_ we’re talking about. I’ll only sleep there if you want me to.”

“How did you turn my offer into something like a _favour_ from you?”

“Just answer the question, Omi-kun!”

Sakusa chooses not to, instead flicking the living room’s lights off, turning away, and heading into his room. Atsumu springs up from the couch and hurries after him.

“I’m just making sure! I don’t want you kicking me in the face because you changed your mind half-way.”

“We are sleeping, not playing _Tekken_ ,” says Sakusa. He lets the flashlight from his phone brighten his bedroom and claims one side of the bed— _jeez_ , this is _weird_. He takes his and Atsumu’s phones to charge in the electrical point on that side, burrows under the blanket, and turns his back to Atsumu who settles into the other half.

“I mean, just because we’re dating, doesn’t mean I’ve ruled out you trying to kill me in my sleep,” Atsumu explains like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

“That’s what you’re into, huh?”

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

Switching off the phone’s flashlight, Sakusa closes his eyes. “Definitely not asking.”

There’s a slight shuffling and a light tug of the blanket— _their shared blanket, this is so weird_ —and Atsumu finally stops moving.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “This is way more comfortable than the couch.”

( _So, so weird._ )

“Go to sleep,” says Sakusa. 

“Your alarm is set for seven, right?”

“Mm.”

“Okay. We can go for a jog before training… oh, wait, I left my training gear at home… I’ll figure it out tomorrow.” There’s a long pause, like Atsumu’s trying to think of something else to say, before he settles on, “G’night, Kiyoomi.”

And then, at last, Sakusa’s apartment is quiet.

Silence.

But a loud sort of silence. The outside lights from the street are too bright as they pour into his room from gaps between his curtains. The cars that pass by on their night drives are too loud, and so are the night birds and the sound of Atsumu’s soft breathing and Sakusa’s heart beating a little too hard for no good reason. 

Sakusa is lying so close to the edge of his bed that he wouldn’t be surprised if he tumbles off in the middle of the night. He doesn’t want to think that he has made a mistake, but this is foreign to him. Atsumu feels simultaneously too close and too far. The bed feels too warm and too cold. His thoughts are too loud—louder than everything else put together. He is tense. But this will pass. He’ll fall asleep and get over it, and things will be okay. He just needs to get used to it. It’ll be fine. He tells himself this over and over again. 

And over,

and over, 

and over again.

But seconds turn into minutes, and minutes stretch into hours, and when Sakusa finally checks the time on his phone, it’s a little past two in the morning. His alarm for his morning jog is going to wreck him, but he is still very much awake. Atsumu is sound asleep, snoring softly with his breathing deep and even.

Okay. Okay, this isn’t working. He can’t sleep like this.

As quietly as he can and keeping the blanket as still as he can, Sakusa slides out of bed, disconnects his phone, and heads out into his living room. Along the way, he takes out the spare blanket Atsumu had used last time, and then he sets his alarm to half past six so he has enough time to duck back into bed. He’s not quite sure why he’s being so careful about all this, why he’s sneaking around like he’s dodging a curfew, but there’s a little voice in his head—loud in the silence of the night—that tells him how disappointed Atsumu would be if he knew.

Sakusa lies down on the couch and pulls the blanket over him. It’s not very comfortable here—the Black Jackals’ sports trainers are going to give him hell if he wakes up with a crick in his neck—but it’ll do for tonight. He shuts his eyes, and it’s not long before he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Sakusa wakes up at quarter past nine. Morning training sessions start at nine, on the dot. He had slept through all his alarms.

_He had slept through all his alarms!_

Sitting bolt upright and flinging the blanket off himself, Sakusa stumbles back into his room, hastily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His room is empty. His bed has been made neatly. Atsumu had already left 1) without Sakusa knowing, and 2) without waking Sakusa up.

“Fuck,” Sakusa mutters under his breath. “ _Fuck_.”

He never sleeps through alarms, what the hell. And why didn’t Atsumu wake him? _What the hell._

Increasingly annoyed, Sakusa hurries through his morning routines of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and fixing his hair, and grabbing two protein bars to eat on the way to the training grounds. The whole time, he thinks: what time did Atsumu leave? How did Sakusa sleep through him leaving? How did he miss his alarms? _Why didn’t Atsumu wake him?_

“Oh, there you are,” Coach Foster says when Sakusa finally arrives at the court for training. “We thought you’d been kidnapped.”

“Sorry,” says Sakusa, bowing low. “Won’t happen again.”

“Warm up properly!” Meian calls out. 

“Yessir.”

Over on the farthest court, Atsumu and the other setters are tossing for some spikers. His tosses are infuriatingly perfect as always. He doesn’t even spare Sakusa a glance after he warms up thoroughly and joins the team as they begin serving practice.

To their credit, Sakusa and Atsumu are professional volleyball players and know to not let their personal lives interfere with training. Nothing is out of the ordinary about their techniques and their forms. Atsumu’s tosses are easy to hit and his jump floaters are difficult to receive as always. Sakusa’s spikes and jump serves all have their nasty spins on them that send their liberos scrambling. It’s business as usual.

If someone notices that they don’t bicker with each other or get competitive over anything today, they don’t say anything.

Training soon comes to an end. After their cool-down stretches, the locker room fills up with their sweaty teammates. Some head to the showers. Inunaki and Bokuto get into a playful towel-whipping fight for some reason. Atsumu quickly changes his clothes and loudly bids everyone a goodbye for the day as he collects his bag, shuts his locker, and leaves.

Sakusa purses his lips together for a moment before going after him.

“Atsumu,” he says half-way down the empty corridor. Atsumu stops walking and he turns around slowly like he’d been interrupted in the middle of doing something important, annoyance rolling off him in waves. When his eyes rest on Sakusa, his face eases into a smile, but it’s the gross kind of sarcastic smile he gets whenever he’s ready to rile someone up.

“Omi-kun!” he says, pseudo-cheerfully. “I was just heading home.”

“Stop that,” says Sakusa.

“Stop what, Omi-kun?”

“Stop— _that_.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to be more _specific_.”

“What time did you leave this morning?”

“Early enough, apparently.”

“ _Oi_.”

“A little past six. I woke up and saw you’d gone and slept on your couch, so I left.”

“ _Six_ —Why didn’t you wake me?” Sakusa demands. “I was late to training!”

“Oh, I don’t know, _Omi-kun_ ,” Atsumu snaps. “Why didn’t you just tell me to sleep on the couch if you hated sleeping next to me _that much?_ I could’ve even gone home. It would’ve been more _comfortable_.”

“I didn’t—” Sakusa stops.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Atsumu thought—

He’d woken up early and saw that Sakusa had moved and thought—

_Oh._

There’s a challenge in Atsumu’s eyes—not like the looks he gets when he and Sakusa get worked up over whatever contest is up in the air, but a look like he’s daring Sakusa to come up with an explanation good enough to smooth out the dent in his pride and his ego.

But he takes Sakusa’s silence as an answer. Atsumu adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and says, “Now, if you’ll _excuse me_.” He turns his heel and continues his way down the corridor.

“ _Atsumu_ ,” says Sakusa, and this time, Atsumu doesn’t stop.

The door shuts behind him. It’s quiet here. Sakusa’s thoughts are loud.

Atsumu saw Sakusa had moved from the bed, but didn’t wake him—Sakusa was more preoccupied by the fact that he’d been late to training—didn’t stop to think about what was going on through Atsumu’s head—Atsumu doesn’t know that was his first time sharing a bed with someone—Sakusa didn’t think he would have to explain—Atsumu’s mind had jumped to Sakusa hating sleeping next to him—not Atsumu’s fault that Sakusa couldn’t sleep—not really Sakusa’s fault he couldn’t sleep, either—

Conclusion: this was a stupid fight. They are idiots.

But more than that, Sakusa had hurt him. He had made Atsumu think that he didn’t want him. And he didn’t know how much of that had to do with Atsumu having a delicate pride, and how much of it had to do with the fact that they both honestly really liked each other.

He thinks about lying awake for hours, and the quiet, creeping guilt of leaving Atsumu to sleep on the couch. He thinks about the look of challenge in Atsumu’s eyes, his sarcastic smile, his more genuine smiles, how happy he looks whenever they have a meal together, the comfortable way they bicker and banter with each other. He thinks about things familiar and unfamiliar.

And he thinks about wanting to try again, because… because…

(Because they’re dating and things are a bit different and he likes Atsumu and—)

When Sakusa arrives home, he sets his volleyball shoes by the door, throws his clothes into the laundry, and washes out his water bottle. This is routine. This is familiar.

Then, he sits on his couch—thinks that there’ll never again be a day that he’ll stop thinking of it as _‘the couch that Atsumu slept on’_ —and calls him. The phone rings and rings and rings… and goes to Atsumu’s voicemail. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of Sakusa’s stomach and—

His phone rings, and he jumps about a mile. It’s Atsumu, calling him back, and Sakusa answers it a little too quickly.

“I just got out of the shower,” Atsumu explains in lieu of a hello.

“Oh,” says Sakusa. He can hear footsteps pattering in the background and the clinking of dishware, and supposes Atsumu must have him on loudspeaker. He wonders what’s for lunch—does Atsumu have instant curry mix, does he have yakisoba and blocks of agedashi tofu, does he have any of the desserts he’d listed for his second stomach, does he—

“It wasn’t you,” says Sakusa. “I mean, it was kind of you, but not really. And I’ve never been late to a training session before, so I guess I got… flustered. I wasn’t used to sharing a bed with someone. Never done that. Ever. Not even when I was a kid. So… it was new to me, and I couldn’t sleep. I thought I could sneak back into bed before you woke up so you wouldn’t know, but… that didn’t happen. But I’ll get used to it. I think I just needed to get over the first time.”

(The look of challenge in Atsumu’s eyes, his sarcastic smile—)

Then, quieter: “It wasn’t because I hated sleeping next to you. It wasn’t anything like that.” And quieter still: “Stay the night again. Okay?”

Atsumu doesn’t answer for a while, and it feels like he’s weighing up his options. Both ends of the phone call are silent. Sakusa wonders what sort of expression Atsumu has on his face right now.

“Tomorrow?” he says at last, and Sakusa exhales softly.

“Works for me.”

“And if you can’t fall asleep again?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“But if you can’t?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Sakusa again. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

* * *

The next day’s afternoon training comes and goes. It’s a world less tense than the previous morning’s session—it’s business as usual. Atsumu’s sets and Sakusa’s spikes are excellent as they always are. They don’t bicker and they don’t set any competitions with each other, but this is okay.

Locker rooms. Showers. Change of clothes and packing of bags. Sakusa is done first and hovers outside as he waits for Atsumu to finish up.

“I need to go grocery shopping,” says Sakusa when Atsumu emerges from the locker rooms. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

Atsumu shrugs. “Okay. I’ll go with you. My bag’s already packed for tonight, I don’t need to go home first.”

The supermarket they go to is about ten minutes walk from Sakusa’s place and has become his staple since joining the Black Jackals. Their selection of fruits and vegetables are wider than other supermarkets in the area, but they also have a larger variety of snacks, which Sakusa has a feeling will be an issue today.

And he is right. As he walks towards the section where the mirin bottles are, there's a crinkling sound and then a light weight in the shopping basket he’s holding. Sakusa looks down and spots a packet of gummy candies he definitely didn’t pick out himself.

He looks over his shoulder to see a flash of blond try to dodge his line of view.

“ _Put this back_ ,” he says, grabbing the gummies and whirling around to shove it against Atsumu’s chest. Atsumu gives a little giggle and catches it before he drops it.

“These are good, though.”

“Buy them yourself, then.”

“I’ll put them back.”

Sakusa turns back to the bottles of mirin, but when there’s another weight dropped into his basket and he sees a box of Apollo Strawberry Chocolate, he looks up just in time to see Atsumu hurry out of sight around the end of the aisle. When he returns, Sakusa lobs the chocolates at him, and Atsumu catches them just in time with his excellent reflexes.

A few minutes later, it’s the weight of a pack of two pudding cups in the basket that gets his attention. He squints up at Atsumu, who is staring a little too keenly at the nutrition information labels between two different bottles of soy sauce.

“Oi,” says Sakusa, and Atsumu’s eyes look up at him as he feigns innocence.

“Yes, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa holds up the pudding and raises his eyebrows. Atsumu can’t fight the grin spread across his face.

“Oh, we have dessert? That’s so nice!” he says.

“Put it back.”

“But pudding makes the perfect dessert!”

Sakusa and Atsumu power-walk down the aisle as Sakusa half-chases after him, managing to grab his bag and haul him back, pushing the pudding into his hands.

Over the course of the grocery shopping trip, Atsumu sneaks a handful of other snacks into the basket, and Sakusa makes him return them. He keeps the pudding cups the second time they make their way in, and relents further when a packet of takoyaki flavoured Calbee chips is dropped in for a third time. Atsumu is grinning all the way, like he’s playing a little game. When Sakusa sends him off to return a pack of chocolate biscuits, Atsumu is practically giggling with glee.

There is something so domestic about all this that Sakusa almost tells him to put the biscuits back into the basket. But more than that, there is forgiveness here—from both of them. And more than that, it feels like Atsumu no longer thinks that Sakusa doesn’t want him.

“Uh, do you want to go halves on the pudding?” Atsumu asks when they finally leave much later than Sakusa had anticipated, holding a shopping bag each. “Where’s the receipt? I don’t remember how much they were.”

“It’s fine,” says Sakusa, tucking his wallet back into his duffel bag. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you not mentioning the Calbee chips, though.”

Atsumu grins. “Don’t sweat the small details, Omi-kun.”

“Honey butter Calbee chips are better.”

“Don’t you _dare_ drop that sort of blasphemy around me!”

“It’s a shame they didn’t have pizza-flavoured Calbee in stock.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing with you, but I’m agreeing with you.”

The rest of the day goes by in a bit of a blur. Atsumu plays his copy of _Final Fantasy_ he’d brought on Sakusa’s Playstation as Sakusa cooks dinner (fried rice, grilled salmon, rolled eggs, steamed leafy greens and mushrooms, and miso soup). He kicks at Atsumu’s feet until he leaves the kitchen after offering to help—once again, it’s less because Sakusa is trying to be a good host, and more because he doesn’t trust Atsumu to not mess everything up.

“I’ll have you know,” Atsumu calls out over some chocobo noises coming from the game, “my mother taught me how to grill mackerel to _perfection_. Even ‘Samu thinks it’s decent!”

“If you’re going to give me grief about honey butter chips, then the least you can do is not compare mackerel to salmon.”

“Small details.”

“They’re two totally different species of fish!”

“One day, I’ll grill mackerel for you, and you’ll love it.”

“I’ll need to write my will first.”

“ _Heeey!_ ”

( _‘One day, I’ll grill mackerel for you.’_ A surprisingly low-key promise for someone like Atsumu, and somehow, that’s why it feels a little more special. Sakusa takes a moment to exhale softly as he runs Atsumu’s words in his head once more before turning his attention back to cooking.)

Dinner is good—

(“It’s _your cooking_ , of _course_ it’s good.”

“How exactly did you make that sound like an insult?”)

—and they both polish everything off cleanly. Atsumu washes the dishes as Sakusa takes another shower. He comes out to see Atsumu bringing today’s two cups of pudding to the dining table, along with two plates and two spoons, and they spend several minutes debating about the best way to eat pudding, with Atsumu insisting that one must take the pudding out of its cup, Sakusa pointing out that that way just makes it messier and they are left with more plates to wash, and Atsumu countering that ‘Sometimes, it’s not about being neat—it’s the feeling of victory when the pudding slides perfectly out of the cup!’

It’s business as usual. It’s familiar. Sakusa is content with the familiar.

But they know the issue of sleeping is hanging in the air. After watching a few episodes of a new drama Hinata had recommended, Atsumu comes out of the bathroom after showering and brushing his teeth, and leans against the door frame of the living room where Sakusa is sitting on the couch and scrolling through his phone for the day’s news.

“Hey,” he says, now quietly, and Sakusa looks up. “If it’s too awkward, I can sleep on the couch. I won’t get mad again, now that I know why. Promise.”

The expression on Atsumu’s face is something like sheepish, and that’s not familiar.

(Because they’re dating and things are a bit different and he likes Atsumu and—

And Atsumu likes—)

Sakusa stands up from the couch and begins shooing him towards his room.

“If you get a sore neck from sleeping on the couch, Meian-san would kick my ass,” he says. “Not to mention, you’d complain the entire time and we’d never hear the end of it.”

Atsumu whirls around to stare at him with an indignant, “ _Oi!_ ”

“I’m not wrong.”

“Yes, you are, jackass! I’m trying to be kind and understanding, here!”

“Please don’t ever use these words to describe yourself.”

“I can’t believe this…” Atsumu climbs into the bed on the same half he’d slept in last time. “How could the food you cook be so delicious and yet filled with such negativity…”

Sakusa turns on his phone’s flashlight and switches off the room light, taking the other side of the bed and plugging both their phones in to charge. “Not seeing the connection.”

“Where’s your sense of creativity, Omi-kun?”

They lie down. “Falling asleep, apparently.” 

“Ah.”

They are facing each other. The phone’s flashlight is still on. Atsumu feels simultaneously too close and too far. Even in the dimness of the room, Sakusa can see that Atsumu is staring back at him—not a challenge, not a dare, but searching. Looking for uncertainty, for signs that Sakusa would change his mind again.

“I’m comfortable, now. I’m not moving,” says Atsumu. 

“Yeah,” Sakusa murmurs. “And I’m right where I want to be.”

* * *

Sakusa wakes the next morning at sunrise, and he sees that Atsumu has a hand curled loosely around his wrist.

_(I’m right where I want to be.)_

It’s easy to fall back asleep.

* * *

When he opens his eyes again not long later, he knows four things: 1) he is pressed up against Atsumu’s chest, 2) Atsumu has an arm draped around him, 3) Atsumu is very warm, and 4) Atsumu is awake, judging by the fact that his breathing is not deep and even as it had been the last time Sakusa heard him sleep. 

(Also: 5) Sakusa knows what Atsumu sounds like when he is asleep.)

Wait— _he is pressed up against Atsumu!_

In one abrupt movement, Sakusa pushes himself upright, sitting up fast that he sways a little, groggy from the sleepiness that still has a hook in him. He stares at his side of the bed, and then Atsumu’s. Atsumu is still in his own half, and it’s _Sakusa_ who has rolled into the middle and taken up his space.

He squints blearily at Atsumu, who is staring back at him like he’s stumbled upon a startled deer.

“G’morning,” Atsumu whispers.

Morning. Right, morning. His alarm hadn’t sounded, he thinks? So he’d woken up on his own again, and apparently, Atsumu had too. How long had he been awake? When had Sakusa rolled over and smushed up against him? 

Huh. It’s too early for this.

With a sigh, Sakusa moves to lie back down as he had been, pressed up against Atsumu’s chest, warm. Atsumu stiffens for a while before exhaling softly and curling his arm around him again. He gives a content little hum.

“I knew you liked me, Omi-kun,” he whispers.

Sakusa doesn’t deign him with an answer.

(It’s obvious, after all.)

* * *

Somehow, they miss Sakusa’s morning alarm and oversleep. He decides to set a different ringtone for the future as they rush around his apartment and try to get ready in time for morning training. He kind of wants to blame Atsumu again—but this time, in a good way. 

* * *

Atsumu spends the night again a few days later. Sakusa tucks himself against his chest before pulling the blanket over them both. Atsumu curls an arm around him. In the quiet of the night, they fall asleep, warm and comfortable and not yet familiar, but they’re getting there. They’re getting there.

Sakusa wakes up first in the morning, a side effect of a regular body clock more than anything else. Today’s training isn’t until the late afternoon. He rolls over to his bedside table to check his phone for the time, and Atsumu, who has also woken up, whines in protest until Sakusa rolls back against him.

“I need to make breakfast,” Sakusa mumbles.

“Shhh… no talk. Sleep.”

“I’m making pancakes.”

“Sleeeeep… Wait, did you say pancakes?”

“Mm-hm.”

Atsumu is quiet for a while before muttering, “Damn.”

“Thought so.”

“Nooo, you cannot manipulate me… I am stronger than my stomach…”

“No to pancakes, then?”

“Nooooo…”

Sakusa pries himself away with difficulty and climbs out of bed.

“ _Noooooooo_ …” Atsumu paws sleepily at the mattress and keeps whining until Sakusa escapes for the bathroom. “You jerrrrrk… I’ll get you for thiiiiis…”

Several minutes later after freshening up for the day, Sakusa is in the kitchen, finishing mixing his pancake batter and heating up his frying pan when he hears the sounds of Atsumu yawning and then the bathroom door opening and closing. It’s not too long after that, that Atsumu emerges again, and Sakusa hears him shuffle into the kitchen and feels him step close, but before he can turn around, Atsumu wraps his arms around his waist and presses his head against Sakusa’s shoulder. Sakusa stiffens, and he knows, judging by how stiff Atsumu is, too, that he is holding his breath.

What does ‘dating’ even mean?

Does it really matter? They’ve never been conventional people, either of them. They would probably never be a typical lovey-dovey couple, even if their company is comfortable and familiar, even if they play-fight in the supermarket aisles over which snacks to buy, even if Sakusa does get used to waking up next to Atsumu… even if Sakusa really wants to do it again—tomorrow, and the morning after that, and the morning after that.

And maybe that was okay.

This pancake has been cooking a little too long because he had been distracted. Sakusa hastily flips it over, and then scoops it out onto the waiting plate beside the stove. He adds more oil and then more pancake batter, and he can feel, rather than hear over the sounds of it sizzling, Atsumu sighing and relaxing against him.

“There’s boiling water in the kettle, if you want tea,” Sakusa says, pointing his spatula at his pantry cupboard. 

“Mm.” Atsumu doesn’t let go.

“And there’s blueberries in the fridge, so help me get those for the pancakes.”

“Do you have ice cream?”

“No, but I have maple syrup.”

“ _What?!_ None at all? You should always have ice cream in your freezer,” Atsumu mumbles into his shoulder. “As a snack, but also for future pancakes. They go great together. Ooh, you could get a waffle maker!”

“Why? They’re the same as pancakes, just… squarer.”

Atsumu gives a mock-offended little gasp. “How could you, Omi-kun?! Waffles can’t be compared to pancakes! Have you never had waffles with ice cream before? When the ice cream melts a little and it catches in the waffle squares, and then when you eat it and it all melts together in your mouth—”

“Atsumu. _Blueberries_.”

“Oh, right!”

Atsumu lets him go and shuffles over to the fridge. He pauses, pulls open the freezer door to squint critically into it for a moment, and then shuts it again, opening the fridge section and taking out the punnet of blueberries.

“I just said I don’t have ice cream,” says Sakusa impatiently as he plates the last pancake.

“Hey, if you had a secret stash of Häagen-Dazs hidden at the back, I wouldn’t have blamed you,” says Atsumu. He rinses the blueberries under the tap and then pops one into his mouth. “Mmm, so sweet.” 

“I don’t buy sour blueberries,” says Sakusa. He reaches for his bottle of maple syrup beside his stove, and begins to drizzle it over the pancakes. “And I have a feeling that no matter how well I hide a secret stash of Häagen-Dazs, you’d still end up finding it.”

“You are _absolutely_ correct, Omi-kun. My ice cream radar isn’t going off, so you’re safe.” Atsumu eats another blueberry.

“Put those down, they’re for pancakes.”

Atsumu plucks out two more from the punnet and sets it beside the stove. “Not my fault you don’t buy sour blueberries. _Hey!_ ” He dodges when Sakusa kicks out at him half-heartedly.

“Go pick a tea,” says Sakusa as he reaches for the blueberries. “Mugs are in that cupboard over there. The teal one is mine. Use it at your own peril.”

Atsumu takes out two mugs, and then pulls the pantry open and studies it.

“You don’t have coffee,” he says accusingly.

“Nope, I don’t drink coffee.”

“ _You don’t have coffee._ ”

“Mm-hm.” Sakusa drops the last of the blueberries onto Atsumu’s stack of pancakes and moves to elbow him out of the way. He claims a teabag of green tea for himself and drops it into his mug. “Which tea do you want?”

Atsumu squints into the cupboard. “Do you have roasted tea? I guess I like that the best.”

Sakusa reaches further back and takes out another small box of teabags. “I’ll brew it. Go take the pancakes and sit down. Cutlery drawer is the top one there. I know exactly how many blueberries and pancakes we each have, so if”—He raises his voice when Atsumu hurries to snatch up the plates a little too eagerly—“you eat any of mine, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Spoilsport!”

Sakusa brews the tea—Atsumu seems like the type to dunk boiling water directly onto tea leaves, and Sakusa is not here for that sort of nonsense. He dilutes the hot water with a bit of cold water so as to not kill the flavour of the tea leaves with too much heat, drops the teabags in, and then brings both mugs to the table. Atsumu, by some miracle, has not started on his pancakes yet (nor has he pinched anything from Sakusa’s plate). Rather, he’s watching Sakusa with a smile that can only be described as _fond_ , and Sakusa tries not to stare, tries not to think about it too much, makes unconvincing excuses for the warmth that bubbles up in his chest.

“Thanks for the food!” say Atsumu with a clap of his hands when Sakusa sets both mugs down and sits opposite him.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sakusa, and Atsumu digs in with gusto.

The next few minutes are filled only with the sound of chewing and sipping and cutlery clinking against their plates. Dinner is one thing, but he hasn’t made breakfast for someone else before. It’s… nice. It’s familiar and unfamiliar in equal amounts. It’s a comfortable sort of quiet. And comfortable and familiar became something bigger and bigger, warmer and warmer.

Halfway through wolfing down his pancakes, Atsumu paces himself. He takes his mug of tea and sips it with a content little hum.

“Next time you go grocery shopping, I’m coming with you again,” he says. “Gotta make sure you get coffee. And ice cream. Maybe a waffle maker, too.”

“No to the waffle maker.”

Atsumu raises his eyebrows, face lighting up a little. “But yes to coffee and ice cream?”

Sakusa meets his eyes very briefly before he looks back down at his pancakes. “Eat your breakfast.”

“These are super good, by the way.”

“Obviously—”

“You don’t make bad pancakes, I know, I know.” Atsumu grins at him and eats another forkful. “I thought I got lucky with the pancake mix I currently use, but now, I don’t know if I can go back to that.”  
  
“Don’t compare my pancakes to pancake mix.”

“Just take the compliment, will you?” says Atsumu. “Someday, you’ll learn to say ‘thank you’ like other people.”

Sakusa raises his eyebrows. “You are the _last_ person I want to hear that from.”

“I have manners!” And Atsumu punctuates that by swiftly stealing a blueberry off Sakusa’s plate.

Familiar. Comfortable. And yet, Sakusa thinks he wouldn’t mind occasionally exploring otherwise with Atsumu. 

Yeah. Yeah, he’d be okay with that.

Later, when their pancakes and blueberries have all been eaten, Atsumu asks, “Would you ever want to stay over at mine someday?” There’s a curious little smile on his face, a smile in his eyes. “I’ve been cleaning a lot more often these days. Consider it your influence. And I would make sure the sheets are all freshly changed—like, _right_ before you sleep on them. They’ll smell of so much detergent, you’ll get a headache the next morning.”

Sakusa snorts. “That’s reassuring.”

“I don’t know how it’d work, though. I only have a single bed and a futon… well, I can take the futon, you can take the mattress. See how hospitable I am?”

“I’m flattered. Swooning, honestly.” Sakusa takes a sip of his tea, pauses, and then murmurs into the mug, “Could we both fit into a single bed?”

“In theory, I guess?” says Atsumu. “But you and I aren’t exactly small people. We’d have to be squished right next to each other.”

“Like how we’ve been doing.”

Atsumu’s smile widens a little. “Mm… yeah.”

Sakusa breathes in the scent of his tea—thinks of making space in his pantry for a coffee jar, space in his freezer for tubs of ice cream, space on his counter for a waffle maker. 

“You know…” he says. “I think we can make it work.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/naffnuffnice/)
> 
> ☆☆☆ twitter user [@Yummi_Treat](https://twitter.com/Yummi_Treat) has drawn super cute art for this fic!! **[here](https://twitter.com/Yummi_Treat/status/1297769093928345600)** and **[here](https://twitter.com/Yummi_Treat/status/1297769785472610304)**! Thanks so much!! :'D ♡


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